


half-forgotten and steadfast

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [49]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brief Partial Paralysis, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Supportive John Watson, Traumatic Brain Injury, Tumblr Prompt, Vulnerable Sherlock, Word Aphasia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: After an accident, Sherlock worries he may never be the same.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [49]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 20
Kudos: 189





	half-forgotten and steadfast

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Anon on Tumblr:
> 
> _Having just read your latest fic with a vulnerable Sherlock and reassuring John (which you did brilliantly), I’d love a fic please where Sherlock has an accident that he fears might permanently harm him (eg. paralyzed, blinded or scarred). John is reassuring, telling him that whatever happens, he will see him through it. Be there for him. I would prefer it if ultimately Sherlock is ok, but this has been the push they need to get together._

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock ran ahead of everyone else, but it was the first time John felt a strange sense of disquiet at the sight of Sherlock’s coattails disappearing into the abandoned building ahead of him. Though his military life was behind him, the lessons learned in the desert still lingered, and John had learned to trust his instincts. Even if Sherlock was too far ahead for John to pull him back, he had a responsibility to listen to his gut and protect whoever he still could.

Stumbling to a halt, he threw out an arm, catching Lestrade across the chest and keeping him from rushing forward. “Wait,” he said in a hard voice, and the DI lifted a hand to halt his officers as John cupped his palms around his mouth and shouted, _“Sherlock!”_ Nothing. Silence. He tried again, growing unease twisting his stomach into knots. _“Sherlock!_ Come back, something isn’t—" _right_ , he’d planned to say, but then the windows in the building in front of them blew out, and a massive explosion shook the ground. It threw John off balance, nearly off his feet before he was running, eyes wide as dust and shrapnel burst out of the second-floor windows. _“Sherlock!”_

“John!” Lestrade grabbed for him, catching and missing as John surged out of his reach and toward the building. “John, you can’t just—John!”

He ignored the call, ducking low to the ground as he passed through the door. He had been a soldier, dammit, had run into worse situations than a burning building. He wasn’t going to let something as basic as structural integrity stop him from finding Sherlock. 

_And what if you find him and the roof caves in on you both?_ John’s rational mind asked, making John shake his head. If he and Sherlock both died, crushed in the rubble, so be it. At least they’d go together.

And wasn’t _that_ a thought John didn’t want to look at too closely.

As he ducked into the building, John narrowed his eyes against the grit and dust swirling in the air. He searched the gloom, gaze passing over scattered debris from the partially-collapsed second floor. He was about to move deeper inside when his eyes caught on a shape, blurred by the dark. Squinting, John moved forward carefully, glancing up at the roof as he heard the structure groan and creak overhead. 

Once he was closer, he found his suspicions confirmed: it was Sherlock. He lay on his side with his legs haphazard, and he wasn’t moving.

“Sherlock?” John called, stepping over twisted steel and jagged chunks of concrete. He scraped his shin on something sharp-edged and metal, the sound of emergency vehicles rising in the distance. John ignored the pain, adrenaline pumping through his veins.“Sherlock.” He knelt beside the man, realizing up-close that Sherlock was almost prone, half-on his side, half-on his front, the collar of his coat obscuring his face. Finding Sherlock’s pulse with his fingertips, careful not to shift his neck or spine, John sighed a relieved breath as he found it, fluttering but strong. 

Blood oozed bright red down Sherlock’s pale, dust-covered face, matting his curls against his skull, and he didn’t move when John called his name again.

**____________**

Head injuries were tricky. A doctor himself, John knew the multitude of symptoms and side-effects of head trauma, could list them backwards and forwards, and rattle off a string of reassurances to patients who had taken a knock to the head. 

What he couldn’t do was look Sherlock in the eye and tell him he’d be able to move his right arm again, or reassure him that he would be able to remember forgotten words and new information with crisp, perfect clarity once more. 

All John could do was take the frustrated rage spitting out of Sherlock’s tight lips in silence, knowing his reassurance would fall on unhearing ears. Instead, John helped Sherlock up the stairs to 221B after the doctor discharged them both and tried not to take it personally when Sherlock snarled at him.

By the time he helped Sherlock settle into bed, the furious fight seemed to have seeped out of him. Sherlock slumped against the pillows, his face pale beneath the plasters and bruises on his skin, the thick, black thread of stitches high on his temple.

“How long?” he asked, his voice a rasp. “How long until I’m… me?” John paused in smoothing the blanket over Sherlock’s legs. He thought of the blast force that had thrown Sherlock against a concrete wall like a ragdoll. Of the swelling in his brain. His breathing faltered, and he brushed his hands over the comforter, fingers shaking slightly as he settled on the edge of the mattress.

“I can’t answer that,” he replied softly. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he sank deeper into the blankets. John reached out to touch his shoulder, expecting Sherlock to snap at him. Instead, the detective just sighed, and John breathed out a quiet, heavy breath of his own. “We’ll get through it,” he promised, letting himself grip Sherlock’s shoulder in a brief, tight hold. “I promise.”

He received no answer, and, gradually, Sherlock’s breathing slowed. Even when he seemed to be asleep, John lingered, finding himself unable to leave. 

**____________**

Sherlock struggled to squeeze the end of a pipette with his reluctant fingers, and John carefully set aside his tea in the sitting room. He waited, counting silently beneath his breath as Sherlock’s expression darkened. Once he looked like an ominous storm cloud, John breathed a soft sigh before Sherlock flung the little plastic tool across the kitchen. The petri dish and microscope might have followed if not for John’s intervention.

“Hey, Sherlock. Wait, Sherlock—” He swept into the kitchen and caught Sherlock’s shaking hands in his. At first, he received a volley of harsh deductions and sharp words before they dissolved into furious breaths and closed eyes. Sherlock gripped John’s wrists in unsteady hands and pressed his lips tightly together. Looking down at him, the display of vulnerability struck John. With a gentle twist, he shifted his hands until their fingers interlaced, Sherlock’s eyes sliding open in surprise. 

“How do you handle it?” he asked quietly. John frowned, feeling the tremour in Sherlock’s hands vibrating against his own.

“How do I handle…?” John cocked his head questioningly, and Sherlock’s gaze shifted away.

“The restrictions…” he sighed, eyes closing once more. “Your body, no longer doing as it’s told.” 

John’s hands tightened, and he swallowed before finding his voice. “It’s not easy,” he admitted, slowly, with reluctance. He breathed a soft exhale and squeezed Sherlock’s hands again. “But it gets easier. And… and it helps, not being alone.” 

Brow furrowed, Sherlock gazed up at John with imperceptible emotion flickering in his eyes. Finally, after studying John’s face closely, he nodded. John forced a tight little smile before unlacing their fingers and stepping away. He paused to pick up the pipette and set it on the table, leaving Sherlock to his speculative silence. 

On his way back to his chair, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on his back. 

**____________**

Four days after the accident, Sherlock barged into the bathroom, just as John was exiting the shower. Between the interruption and nearly having a heart attack, John barely managed to snag a towel to wrap around his waist and not slip on the bath mat. 

“My hand, John! My hand!” 

Filled with trepidation, John froze, turning wide, panicked eyes on his flatmate. “What happened? Are you hurt? Are you okay?” He tried to catch the hands waving wildly before his face, but it was Sherlock who grabbed John’s hands instead, holding fast. They were nearly steady, only a faint tremour rippling through them as their fingers fit between each other’s knuckles. 

“It’s working,” Sherlock announced triumphantly, his eyes glittering in a way John had not seen since the accident. He looked a little dazed, bruises still fading on his face, the stitches stark against his skin. But there was a hint of healthy colour in Sherlock’s cheeks, and John’s lips curled into an automatic smile at the sight of Sherlock’s satisfaction. 

“Wonderful,” he replied, turning Sherlock’s hand over in his own. “Flex the fingers for me?” Sherlock did as requested, his smile widening as each finger bent and straightened, only the barest hint of a shiver in his pinky. John grinned. “That’s fantastic.” When he looked up, the faint flush in Sherlock’s skin deepened, his lashes fluttering as his gaze dropped beneath John’s scrutiny. He looked suddenly bashful, almost timid, and John sucked in a breath at the abrupt softening. As if drawn by the display of fragile humanity, John tilted forward, caught himself, and cleared his throat. “Fantastic,” he repeated, his voice a little rough. Sherlock coughed as well, slipping his hands from John’s hold and taking a step back. He seemed to take notice of John’s state of undress and averted his eyes.

“I’ll just… leave you to…” he waved his fingers, barely a delay in the movement, and hurried from the steamy atmosphere of the bathroom. John bit his lip and looked after him before tearing his eyes away and closing the door. After only a moment of hesitation, he chose not to lock it.

**____________**

After the excitement of Sherlock’s partial paralysis passing, Sherlock rode the high of his regained dexterity for all of two days before he tripped, knocked his head, and wound up back at the A&E. His memory issues, merely a mild frustration before, woke as a vicious beast. 

By the time they were back at Baker Street with a fresh warning for strict bed rest, Sherlock had forgotten John’s name twice, called a cab a ‘chariot,’ and devolved into a thin-lipped staring contest with the door knocker when he couldn’t recall the word. 

John ushered him inside, trying not to think of how the moment mirrored their first time home after the explosion. When he tried to steer Sherlock toward his bedroom, he met resistance in the form of Sherlock digging in his heels. Sherlock whirled on him (likely not a pleasant movement for someone with vertigo and a double concussion), and glaring hard into his face, now inches from Sherlock’s. 

“What?” John asked, startled, caught off guard, and flustered all at once. Sherlock’s mouth opened, but nothing emerged, and his eyes blazed. John winced in sympathy before he could suppress the urge, and Sherlock’s expression darkened. 

_“John,”_ he hissed, finally remembering the name just in time to hurl it like a witch’s curse. 

“You remembered—” John began, his tone soothing, only for Sherlock’s eyes to narrow and his lip to curl.

“Don’t… p… p…?” Sherlock frowned, mouth twisting into a hard moue. When John cocked his head in silent inquiry, waiting patiently, Sherlock’s frown shifted into a scowl, and he jabbed a finger into John’s chest. “Don’t!”

“I won’t,” John promised with no idea what he agreed to, but willing to agree if it meant Sherlock might calm and concede to some bed rest. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock was just getting started. “Don’t. _It,”_ he forced out through his teeth, and John pressed his lips together. 

“I won’t,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a calming tone. Sherlock’s hands found his shoulders, fingers curling around the ridges of John’s trapezius muscles. John winced at the force digging into the tender flesh but held his ground beneath Sherlock’s sudden wrath.

“Don’t,” Sherlock hissed one final time, and John nodded gravely, trying to steer Sherlock back around and into the bedroom at the end of the hall. But Sherlock, despite his wooziness and obvious vertigo, just dug his fingers harder into John’s shoulders and stared at him. His eyes narrowed to little slits, mouth a thin, white line in his flushed face. “I can’t,” he said, providing or unable to provide any further explanation. Looking at him, at the uncertainty in his eyes, John lifted his hands, hesitated, and set them lightly on Sherlock’s waist. He squeezed, drawing Sherlock marginally closer, surprised when he allowed it.

“Together,” John said in a voice made low by his fervent tone. “We’re in this together.” Sherlock’s eyelids flickered, and he wet his lips before nodding. The gesture filled John with a surge of relief, both at Sherlock’s lack of vitriol at the sentiment and for the easy acceptance of his support. “Now.” John cleared his throat and dropped one hand from Sherlock’s waist, slipping the other around Sherlock’s torso to help him stay upright. “Bed for you.” 

Sherlock made a sour face but didn’t fight. Instead, he let John guide him down the hall. To John’s pleased surprise, he leaned into the contact and slipped into bed without fuss. John settled the pillows around him, making sure he was comfortable. This time, he didn’t linger, slipping away as soon as Sherlock’s eyes closed.

**____________**

Six days after the tripping incident, Sherlock began to move around more, shuffling about the flat with a perturbed expression on his face. The bruises had almost entirely faded, only a stubborn tinge of yellow lingering near his eye, the edge of his jaw. The stitches were gone, the wound puckered and red, but closed. His fingers and hand were cooperative, barely a shake now and then, mostly ignored.

His memory still hadn’t stabilized, far from its usual power, and Sherlock haunted the sitting room like a foreboding shadow. John, caught between wanting to support him or give space, found himself drifting aimlessly from sitting room to kitchen, carrying a cup of tea once, a piece of toast the next, then just lingering by the sink and frowning out the window. Sherlock’s aphasia had improved, but the smaller details remained out of reach, and Sherlock scowled at his violin. Having forgotten the name for the frets, he looked thunderous, and John ran water in the sink to sound busy.

The air inside the flat felt like the electric stretch before a storm, and he absently flicked water droplets from his fingers onto the counter. Things would get better in time. It would just take time. 

Sherlock began to huff and growl in the sitting room before his mobile flew across the room and landed in John’s chair. 

Still looking out the window, his hand on the tap, John pursed his lips and waited for the sound of his name. When it came, it was in a snarl, and he shut off the sink before turning toward the sitting room. He startled, finding Sherlock standing in the open space between the kitchen and living room and halted. Sherlock stood rigidly, hands locked into tight fists at his sides. He was eyeing John with a dark expression, and John watched him cautiously. 

“You alright?” he said slowly, bracing himself for a barrage of fury and acidic bite. To his bemusement, Sherlock held out his hand, flinging his arm outward hard enough that John heard the joint pop in his elbow. Shooting him a questioning look and receiving no explanation, John moved forward and took the offered hand. Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face, and his scrutiny was sharp enough that John thought he could feel it upon his skin. 

Still without speaking, his lips pressed together in a tight line, Sherlock turned and pulled John along with him toward the couch. John followed in a curious daze, letting Sherlock point him toward the cushion on the left side. His brows rising, John sat and allowed Sherlock to arrange him into the corner between sofa back and arm with his feet on the floor, feeling bemused.

When he opened his mouth to ask what the point of the display was, Sherlock abruptly turned away, lay across the sofa, and dropped his head in John’s lap. He stretched his feet toward the far arm and closed his eyes with a sigh.

To John’s continued and stunned confusion, Sherlock’s head lolled against his stomach, his tense mouth softened, and he went loose. John wiggled uncertainly and received a low, irritated, _“John,”_ for his troubles. 

He subsided, still bewildered, and watched as Sherlock relaxed until he seemed to be asleep. His breathing came slow and even. After a moment of hesitation, John settled a hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck, fingers just brushing the soft curls at his nape. Sherlock hummed quietly, even as John braced himself for rejection. But Sherlock merely curled his legs toward his chest, his eyes still closed.

As the flat settled into a strange, comfortable silence around them, John let his hand creep a little higher, grazing his fingers into silky locks. Sherlock hummed again, shifting slightly, his face nuzzled into John’s thigh. The sensation of his warm breath sent a heady shiver through John’s body, and he sucked in a breath, holding it when Sherlock cracked open one eye and peered up at him. 

“You can turn on the… the…” his brow furrowed, and he lifted a heavy arm to flick his fingers at the television. “The _thing.”_ Feeling the sudden ripple of tension through Sherlock’s body, John automatically stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, making the detective drop his arm and settle again. Still holding his breath, John dug for the remote in the cushion beneath him, lifting his hips to find the device and making Sherlock voice a soft noise of irritation. 

After John had sunk back down, he cautiously leaned into the sofa and flicked on the telly. The light from the screen danced over Sherlock’s face, picking up the silvery flickers of his half-open eyes. John turned the channel to something mindless but found himself ignorant to whatever was happening on the program. He watched the shifting illumination soften Sherlock’s sharp angles, lifting a slow hand to card his fingers into the curls at his nape again. Sherlock hummed low in his throat once more, eyelids still half-mast.

**____________**

John woke with a stiff shoulder and a cottony taste in his mouth. He blinked once, then again, when he realized there was a blanket draped over him. Looking around the sitting room, John found himself alone. As he began to feel disoriented, a sound in the kitchen of metal against metal drew his attention. John tilted forward to see Sherlock retrieving a spoon from in the sink, his expression tense and irritated. 

Watching him, John felt a flood of warmth, his thoughts flashing back to the previous night. To the sensation of Sherlock’s cheek against his thigh, the warm brush of his breath through the thick fabric of John’s jeans. There had been nothing sexual about the event, and John’s reaction to it now wasn’t either. He felt lighter than he had since finding Sherlock lying on the floor in the wrecked building, his face red with blood and his body deathly still. 

After shaking the stiff tension from his shoulder, John padded into the kitchen. He cleared his throat, suddenly cautious, and Sherlock looked up from staring at the spoon in his hand. Their eyes met, and John froze, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. He waited, expectant and a little apprehensive.

To his surprise, Sherlock held out the spoon with a helpless, frustrated moue to his full lips. “What is this?” he demanded, and John peered at the object, confused.

“A… spoon?”

Triumph flooded Sherlock’s face, quickly replaced with irritation. “Spoon. Obvious.” He dropped it back into the sink with a clatter. “I can’t even remember the words for _eating utensils_ , John,” he said, his voice strained and unsteady. “My brain is my hard drive.” Raising his eyes, he looked at John. “How am I supposed to do my work if I can’t even remember what a… a…” his brow furrowed, and he gestured angrily into the sink.

“Spoon,” John offered in a quiet voice, moving nearer until they were standing over the sink together, shoulder to shoulder. “And it could come back,” he spoke carefully, not wanting to offer false hope. “It might take a bit, and some work, but it might not be permanent.” 

“Might, could,” Sherlock repeated the words in a scoff, his hands tightening around the edge of the counter. “And if it doesn’t get better? If my mind is never the same?” He raised his head and looked John in the eye, their faces inches apart. John felt Sherlock’s tense exhale against his cheek and pressed his lips together. 

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said, rock-solid confidence in his reply. When Sherlock began to look away, his jaw clenching with frustration, John reached out and caught his chin with his fingers. He did it without thinking, and Sherlock’s eyes widened just a little before John dropped his hand, suddenly self-conscious. “I mean it, Sherlock. Whatever you need to make it work, we’ll do it. If you need me to be your memory, I’ll do it.” His lips tugged upward at the corner, and he patted his temple. “I already write everything down, so I don’t forget. It’s like I’ve been in training.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. It was almost a smile, and John felt a surge of relief at the hint. Catching Sherlock’s upper arm, he squeezed gently. 

“Together,” he reminded, holding Sherlock’s gaze. 

Sherlock nodded slowly, breathing a loud, heavy sigh before he replied, “Together.” 

**____________**

It was their first case since the accident. The case was a break-in, barely a four, but Sherlock had agreed to John’s suggestion to start small, to start simple. 

They’d barely been on scene for fifteen minutes when Sherlock turned to Lestrade to make a string of deductions, lost his train of thought as he forgot a word, and subsided into a bewildered silence. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he clenched his hands into fists, falling silent. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at John over his shoulder. 

Before John could step forward, before he could even open his mouth and offer support, Anderson interrupted, “What’s the matter, freak?” he snapped, nose scrunched up in disdain. “Cat got your tongue?”

John’s hand flexed into a fist, and he took a threatening step forward. But Sherlock’s arm shot out and stopped him. Shoulders stiff, his posture rigid and tense, Sherlock drew in a breath. As if he hadn’t heard Anderson at all, he turned back to Lestrade, spat out the word, “Sister,” then spun on his heel and strode out of the house. John hurried after him.

“You should have let me hit him,” John muttered, slowing once he had caught up to Sherlock, matching his pace. “It’s long overdue.”

“He’s a moron,” Sherlock replied, face flushed with anger that was beginning to ebb into something else. “Of course I remember _that_ word.”

“Sherlock…” John caught his arm and tugged him to a gentle stop. “It doesn’t make you any less.” At Sherlock’s irate stare, he stroked a thumb over the heavy wool of Sherlock’s coat. “It _doesn’t_ ,” he insisted. “You’re still brilliant, still a genius.” After a second of hesitation, he reached up and drifted the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s temple. “It’s just words. Certain words. There are tricks, techniques, things you can try.” His hand dropped back to his side, and John found himself faced with Sherlock’s full focus. “I’ll help. We’ll figure it out together.” He offered a small, tentative smile, still gripping Sherlock’s arm. “Yeah?”

Silent, Sherlock studied his face, eyes darting over John’s earnest expression. Finally, he looked away. “Alright, John.” 

John grinned and squeezed his arm again. “Alright. Good. Great.” They began walking again, Sherlock scanning the road for a cab. 

As John’s hand dropped from his arm, Sherlock caught it with his own and twined their fingers together. The gesture took John by surprise, but he coughed and wiped his face blank, though a small smile lingered on his lips, mirrored on Sherlock’s face. 

**____________**

“Okay, hey, wait,” John said, catching Sherlock’s angrily fluttering hands. He drew them together, clasped them between his own. “The word you want. Tell me what it means. Describe it.”

Huffing a sharp breath between his teeth, Sherlock closed his eyes. John stood over him, where he sat at the kitchen table, feeling the minute tremours in Sherlock’s fingers against his palms. He grasped gently and waited, watching Sherlock’s brow furrow in thought.

“It’s when… when you… cut something out.” His nose crinkled with the force of his frown, the sight deeply endearing. John shook himself out of his thought, resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the wrinkle away. “Remove something? Cut it out of someone. There’s an e-sound.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed open, the pupils huge then contracting in the kitchen light.

“Okay.” John drew in a deep breath, thought for a moment. “Expunge? Eradicate?” Sherlock shook his head, lips pressing together. 

“More… medical.”

John paused, thinking. He flicked through memorized medical terminology until something stuck. “Excise?” he asked tentatively and grinned as Sherlock’s face lit up.

“Yes! Yes, John, that’s it.” A genuinely pleased smile warmed Sherlock’s expression, and John breathed a soft laugh. 

“Good. I’m glad we found it.” He moved to drop his hands, but Sherlock tangled their fingers together and held his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice, and John felt his face grow warm. 

“Of course.”

**____________**

Through fits and starts, they found a rhythm, a way to cover the gaps where Sherlock’s brain struggled. And, through it all, something changed between them. Drew them closer, shifted their dynamic. Boundaries blurred, reformed until sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa was no longer a surprise. Until Sherlock’s head landing in his lap didn’t even inspire an eyebrow twitch on John’s part. 

At cases, they worked as a team, just as they always had. But things became seamless, the two of them playing off one another without speaking, communicating through shared looks and gestures. 

It carried through into their home life, where John had Sherlock’s tea ready before he even asked, and Sherlock called for takeaway minutes before John’s stomach began to growl. 

Life became softer. Even as Sherlock improved, the mellowness lingered. Once, John would have thought they might revert to the way things had been, but they didn’t. Sherlock’s memory gaps shrank, and his word aphasia improved, and still, each was like an extension of the other. 

The evening when John looked down to find Sherlock already looking back at him, head in its now-usual spot on John’s lap, he wasn’t shocked to see his feelings of love looking back at him. Catching the way Sherlock’s eyes appeared warm and liquid as they stared up at him, John smiled.

Sherlock mirrored the expression, and it was the simplest thing to bend down. To meet Sherlock as he tilted up on his elbow and reached for John, his long fingers wrapping over the nape of John’s neck. 

Their mouths met, lips brushing soft, then harder, John’s fingernails lightly catching in silky strands as he tangled his hand in Sherlock’s hair. He cupped his skull, that delicate, incredible, fragile bone structure as he kissed Sherlock again, breathing a fluttering sigh when Sherlock’s lips parted, and John tasted his tongue, his breath, his gentle, willing vulnerability. 

Sherlock kissed him back, touching the tip of his tongue with aching tenderness to the inside of John’s bottom lip, and John broke the kiss just enough to shift and lay down. With slow hands, he pulled Sherlock closer, trailed his fingertips over his jaw, and guided their mouths together. 

He felt Sherlock sigh against his lips and smiled, knowing they would be fine. Sherlock would be fine. Whatever came at them, they would handle it.

Together.


End file.
